


Time is Just a Symptom of Love

by Scorpion_Queen



Series: Castles in the Air [2]
Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Rewind Time Powers (Life is Strange), Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon Divergence - No Dark Room (Life is Strange), F/F, Minor Character Death, Rachel Amber Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:41:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29956992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scorpion_Queen/pseuds/Scorpion_Queen
Summary: Chloe left Arcadia Bay, and all its painful memories, in her rear-view mirror five years ago. She's content with her cozy new home and quiet existence. When a late-night call shatters the peace, she must choose between her new life and the one she left behind.Rachel has everything she's ever wanted: fame, fortune, and a brand new life in LA. When a tragedy forces her to return home, she realizes that she still has a lot to learn about herself and that nothing is ever as picture-perfect as it looks.
Relationships: Rachel Amber/Chloe Price
Series: Castles in the Air [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2144046
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20





	Time is Just a Symptom of Love

**Author's Note:**

> We're picking up 5 years since the events of Castles. Things will get a bit darker later on, still fiddling with the details but I will update tags as chapters roll out. Also- as time goes on the glaring grammatical and everything-else errors in the first few chapters of Castles bother me more and more. I'm going to start editing them in my spare time, just so they're slightly more legible. If you've stuck with me despite all of my misplaced commas, thank you and i'm sorry! And, as always, big huge giant thank you to my beta sad_magical_girl for making sure this chapter was up to snuff!
> 
> Work title is from Joanna Newsom's "Time, As A Symptom"  
> Chapter title is from The Wonder Years "Hoodie Weather"

It’s 57 degrees and the forest is on fire. Smoke billows from somewhere south of the city, a grey smudge on the horizon. It’s probably Pisgah again; an ember from a campfire or an errant cigarette catching in the dry brush, eating through acres and acres. Chloe watches it, through two panes of glass, from the hostess stand. She imagines the smell, heady and nostalgic. She inhales and instead smells hot oil and pecans.

“Chloe, are you daydreaming again?”

Emily has her dark hair tied back in a ponytail today, giving her cherubic features a mis-matched, severe look. Chloe reaches over and tugs her hair free of the elastic.

“Hey!” Emily yelps and tries to snatch the elastic back. Chloe smiles and holds it just out of reach.

“We’ll be off soon. You don’t need this anymore.”

“Oh, fine,” Emily says begrudgingly.

Chloe glances around at the mostly empty dining room. It’s been slow all day. Once she’s sure the coast is clear, Chloe backs Emily into the broom closet, letting the door click closed behind them. It’s a tight fit but less uncomfortable than the walk-in.

“We can’t keep doing this at work,” Emily mumbles into her mouth.

“Do you want to stop?” Chloe asks, pausing with her hand on Emily’s ass.

“No.”

After work, they go to Emily’s house, where Chloe spends most of her time now anyway.

Chloe struggles with the rusty garden gate and Emily shouts something friendly to one of the neighbors. People around here are chatty in general, but they seem to especially like talking to Emily. She has one of those cheerful, open faces that people seem to trust right away. Unlike Chloe, who gets a tight-lipped smile every now and then.

When they get to the porch, Peach is waiting by the bushes. The scrappy grey kitten that they found behind the restaurant six months ago is now long limbed and graceful.

“How did you get out?” Chloe asks her, as she winds figure eights through her legs.

Peach chirps and stretches.

“I bet she got through the screen again,” Emily says, fumbling with her keys in the lock.

Before the door is even closed behind them, Chloe’s pulling her clothes off. The smell of grease settles into her work clothes so easily. Emily does the same, kicking her pants into a pile by the closet that hides the washing machine.

Whenever Chloe stays at Emily’s—which is most days lately--she cooks and does yard-work and attempts repairs. Emily does the laundry and the dishes and dusts her rooms of unnecessary antique furniture. It’s a comfortable division of labor that makes it easy to imagine building a life here, and something about that sends Chloe’s heartbeat galloping unpleasantly through her body.

They shower together and tumble into bed. Emily is a careful lover; she requires patience and coaxing and soft hands. What she doesn’t require is Chloe’s undivided attention. Chloe’s mind can drift to her grocery list or the grass that needs mowing. 

Afterwards, Chloe claims her place in the kitchen to make dinner. She’s digging through the cupboard for canned tomatoes when she hears Emily’s voice from the living room.

“Look who it is!” she says, pointing at the television.

A blonde starlet is posing for cameras, perfect teeth catching like lightning in the flashbulbs. Chloe’s mouth goes dry. The next image is a paparazzi photo of the same starlet leaving a club--hair sweat-stringy, eyes unfocused—on the arm of a tattooed man who looks like either a model or a drug dealer. Another video starts up, a clip from the gritty Nancy Drew reboot she stars in. Rachel is clad in a preppy little skirt and knee-socks, her hair (or is that a wig?) set in auburn waves. 

“That red hair is so pretty,” Emily sighs. “I wish I could pull it off.”

“I like your hair the way it is.”

Chloe never meant to tell Emily about Rachel, and in all honesty she hasn’t. Not adequately anyway. Emily saw Rachel in some slasher movie last summer and decided to look up her social media. Rachel—or more likely, her agent—had deleted most of her old pictures, except for one. Rachel with her arm slung around a blue haired girl with a familiar tattoo.

“Want me to take it off mute?” Emily asks. “I just need to find the clicker…”

Chloe tears her eyes away and looks at Emily for half a beat too long before smiling.

“Nah, I don’t watch this shit.”

Emily wrinkles her brow and looks back at the television, the program now rehashing reality show drama.

“She doesn’t look like she’s doing great. You said that you were friends, right? Maybe you should reach out—”

“We were friends like five years ago. We’re different people now. I am, anyway.” Chloe shuffles back to the kitchen feeling even more exhausted than before. “Besides, these vultures get paid to create drama where there isn’t any. I’m sure she’s fine. She always partied a little too hard on occasion.”

Emily frowns but sits back on the couch, tucking her legs under her.

“Was she that beautiful back then?”

“She was hideous,” Chloe says opening drawers in search of the can opener. “People barked at her in the hallways at school. She must have a damn good surgeon.”

Emily’s laugh floats over from the couch.

“You’re so full of shit, Chloe Price.”

***

The pool is freezing when Rachel lowers herself into it and it doesn’t get much better as time goes on. Lucas dives in next, splashing her full in the face.

“My makeup!” Rachel shrieks at him and then lunges in his direction.

He laughs and pretends to run away in slow motion. Her arms circle his neck and she holds tight as he spins her around. Neither notice the ominous click of heels marching to the edge of the pool.

“Will you please stop fucking around? We have places to be today.” Bev is glaring over the frame of her _brand-fucking-new-please-don’t-touch-them_ Tom Ford sunglasses. She’s a stern woman with a heavily lined mouth that rarely smiles, but Rachel adores her anyway. “Go. Both of you. Phillip is waiting,” she says, shooing Rachel and Lucas off toward the shallow end of the pool.

The photographer has more patience and a refreshingly relaxed attitude. He directs Lucas to hold Rachel, half-submerged. They twist and adjust and readjust their poses, made to stare into each other’s eyes—"stop laughing, you two!”— or pause with their lips centimeters away from contact --“I won’t actually kiss her though, she had tuna for lunch” “Shut the fuck up, Luke!”--after five years of filming and doing PR bullshit together, they know what’s expected.

Afterwards, they sit on the warm flagstone and watch the photographer pack up; a moment of peace before they’re back on their leashes.

“Are you okay?” Lucas runs a towel through his dark hair, dripping rivulets down his back.

“I can’t believe we’re done,” Rachel muses, wringing her own sun-streaked hair. “No more Ned and Nancy.”

Lucas laughs and pats her thigh. “It’s a good thing. You’re more Sid and Nancy than Ned and Nancy anyway.” He squints against the afternoon sun and Rachel is overcome with a wave of affection for him.

“Promise me that we won’t lose touch?” she asks him.

“We literally have plans for next week.”

“Yeah, but it’s going to be different when we’re not together all the time. Just promise me?”

Lucas holds out his pinky. “I promise. But for the record, I’m hard to get rid of.”

“Yeah. Heard that line too many times.” Rachel hooks his pinky with hers. “Call me later?”

The car ride to her apartment takes two hours and Bev makes good use of the time by throwing her into a phone interview and updating her socials with a picture of her and Lucas by the pool ( _Behind the scenes of today’s shoot with my best friend!_ ) so that her life looks perfect.

“Would you like to discuss this?” Bev asks her suddenly, holding up her phone. It’s a photo of Rachel--lipstick smeared, heels in hand—leaving a club with a man whose name she barely remembers.

“Oh, that’s a bad look.”

“No fucking kidding. You need to be more careful. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I got it, Bev.” Rachel bites her lip and tries to look less like an insolent child.

“If you want big girl movies, you have to act like a big girl.”

“I know.”

“Speaking of which,” Rachel perks up, already anticipating the news from Bev’s tone, “I got a call—"

“Sweet Valley High?”

“Yes, you—”

“I got the part!”

“Rachel,” Bev pinches the bridge of her nose and Rachel settles back into her seat, “think about it for a moment. You just told me yesterday that you don’t want to do another reboot where you play a teenager.”

Rachel shrugs. “That was before I knew I got the part.”

“Alright,” Bev says, and resumes tapping away on her phone, “but don’t come crying to me later.”

“I would never.” Rachel winks at her.

By the time they reach her building, Rachel’s mind is going a mile a minute. The happy glow that she felt this afternoon is gone by the time she reaches the elevator. Once she’s sliding her key into the lock, she’s as cold and empty as her apartment.

Outside her over-size picture windows, the city is bright and smoggy and still humming through the evening. She throws her jacket over the back of one of her dining room chairs. There’s a whole set of them, eight chairs around a table with a leaf, yet she’s never even had more than three people in here at once.

The bottle of vodka in her ice tray is either three fourths empty or a quarter full. She pours most of it into a glass and takes it to the bathroom with her. She turns the tap as hot as she can stand and sinks herself into the tub before it’s even full. Her phone rings on the edge of the vanity and she already knows it’s either Bev or her mother.

She lets the call go to voicemail and takes a gulp of vodka. It tastes like absolutely nothing, mild as water, so she finishes it. With that done, she leans all the way back and lets the water close over her head. With her eyes shut and every sound muffled, she imagines that this is what it felt like before she was born.

She doesn’t even notice that her lungs are screaming for air until her phone rings again, and the vibrations startle her back to reality. The side of the tub digs into her hip as she reaches for her phone, water sloshing across the tile. She’s still gasping as she answers.

“Hello?”

“Rachel, it’s mom.”

“Can I call you bac—”

“Rachel, listen to me. Your father’s in the hospital. You need to come home right away.”

“What?” The checkered floor-tiles seem to ripple. “What happened?”

“He had a heart-attack. I’ll tell you more when you get here.”

Rachel scrambles out of the tub, clumsy and sliding on the tile. “W-What do I need to do?”

Her hot skin raises to goosebumps in the air-conditioned bathroom. Her teeth are chattering and she feels her jaw getting tight. She tries to remember the breathing exercise her therapist taught her, but she keeps picturing her father’s face, contorted with pain.

“Just get a little bag together. I called Bev when you didn’t answer before. She set up your flight and she’s on her way to pick you up now. I’ll call you if anything changes, okay? I love you.”

“Okay, love you.”

Rachel drops the phone as soon as the call ends and stands naked in the middle of her bathroom, waiting for the wave of panic to ease.

As the shakes subside, she walks to her bedroom and starts packing. How long will she be home anyway? She decides to play it safe and empties all her drawers into two bags. Her hand pauses over a plain black dress.

He might die. Her father—distant, untouchable—is only a man and he might _die_.

Nausea rolls through her violently, giving her only seconds to reach the bathroom. Bile and vodka burn her throat and there’s a throbbing ache in her sinuses. Her naked knees roll painfully against the hard floor, the imprint of grout lines etched into her skin.

She needs to get it together. It’s not the time to panic.

Back in her room Rachel pulls on clothes and grabs her phone off the bed. She scrolls through her contacts with a shaky thumb. There’s only one person she wants to talk to right now.

***

“I’m going to kill him,” Victoria deadpans. She looks every bit of her old high school namesake in her stilettos, lips painted an angry red. The viper. “How difficult is it to install a few projectors in under a week?”

Max grabs her hand and kisses her palm.

“Don’t kill him. We would have to hire someone else and I’d have to do more paperwork. Also, thirty-six projectors is more than a few.”

Victoria considers this, head tilted skeptically. She lifts her other hand for Max to kiss.

“Fine. The electrician can stay. But I’m finding a new plumber.”

Max shrugs. The Chase Space has used the same plumber for the last 12 years, and even Victoria doesn’t have that kind of pull. Not yet, anyway.

Victoria walks over to the calendar and points at a date Max can’t even make out.

“Did you happen to see this?”

“Uh, no,” Max says. The calendar is a cluster-fuck of neon sticky notes and random symbols that only Victoria can decipher anyway. “Is it important?”

“Not really. Our class reunion is in September.” Victoria taps the date again, pointing out a little gold star sticker that Max hadn’t noticed before. “Juliet sent me an email about it today. Do you want to go?”

“I don’t know, it’s only March. Plus, Chloe probably won’t want to go...”

Victoria sighs and puts the kettle on the stove. “I forgot that everything is always about Price. She moves all the way across the country and yet our lives still revolve around—"

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you.” Max gives her a lascivious smile over her laptop.

Rain is running over the skylight, bathing the apartment in green-grey light. All Max wants to do is go to bed--preferably with Victoria, but she’s not above turning in alone. She’s been awake too long and her temples are throbbing.

“Please.” Victoria wrinkles her nose. “Do you think Rachel will be there?”

“I don’t know,” Max says. “She’s done filming the show and she doesn’t have another movie that I know of, so maybe.”

“Hmm. Well, if she _does_ show up, I have some suggestions for her—”

“Is this about the horses? It’s called historical _fiction_ for a reason.”

“Sure, and I can suspend my disbelief when it comes to some of the outfits, but Fjord horses were not introduced to the America’s until _much_ later. I also have some notes about her equitation—”

“I love how passionate you are—”

“Thank you.”

“—but I doubt she had any say in which breed of horse they used.”

Max’s phone rings from across the room and she groans.

“I’ll get it,” Victoria says brightly, “since I’m not dozing off at 8pm.”

“Caffeine addict.”

“Old lady.” Victoria picks up the phone and frowns at it. “Did you summon her?” She hands it over to Max.

A picture of Rachel that Max took the last time she visited ,two years ago, is lighting up the screen.

“Rachel?”

“Max?” Rachel’s voice is brittle.

“Are you okay?”

Victoria slides closer trying to eavesdrop, and Max shoos her away.

“My dad’s in the hospital and I’m… I’m about to get on a flight home.”

“Oh, Rachel, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“Um, he had,” Rachel’s voice flickers and there’s a pause before she continues, “he had a heart attack. Max, I think it’s bad.” Rachel’s voice breaks and Max’s expression draws Victoria near again.

“I can come. I can come right away.”

“Max—”

“Hotel’s around the bay are always empty this time of year. It would be dirt cheap.”

“That’s so unnecessary. You’d have to take off work and find someone to, I don’t know, water your plants or something. He might recover really fast.”

“Victoria’s here. She can water our plants,” Max tries to look away from Victoria who is now crouching in front of her mouthing _I’m coming with you_ furiously, “and if he recovers fast, then I’ll make a vacation out of it. I’ll take pictures of the beach and visit Joy—uh, I’ll find things to do.”

A tinny, distorted voice echoes through the phone.

“I’m boarding” Rachel says. “I’ll text you when I land, okay?”

Max hangs up and looks at Victoria.

“So, Rachel’s dad—”

“I’m coming with you,” Victoria says firmly. “You’re insane if you think I’ll stay home to ‘water the plants.’ We don’t even have plants.” Max points to her small collection of succulents on the windowsill. “Those don’t count.”

“You can come with me if you want, but I know this installation is a big deal to you—"

“They’ll manage without me.”

***

According to the travel magazine in the hospital waiting room, Arcadia Bay is one of Oregon's hidden gems. There are pictures of the lighthouse at sunset and Main Street’s American flag bunting on the fourth of July and the view from Otter Point. It doesn't include the junkies at the liquor store or the dropouts at the skatepark or the crumbling infrastructure or the tattooed girls with rocky home lives.

In the bottom left corner, there’s a picture of Two Whales Diner with its shiny new interior and upgraded menu. The largest photo is of Joyce standing proudly behind the counter, hand on her hip, pen behind her ear, same as always. “Locally owned, locally managed,” reads the caption. It sends a shock of adrenalin up Rachel’s back and makes her throat feel raw.

She slaps the magazine back into the dusty wicker basket and looks at Rose. She can't recall seeing her mother take her eyes off the clock since they got here. The TV is tuned to the Weather Channel, which is stupid because there will be scattered rain showers for the next week and probably the one after that, on and on until the heat death of the universe.

“I want to come home,” Rachel says.

“Okay, you can take the car back to the house, and I’ll call you if anything changes,” Rose says, still looking at the clock, eyes glazed and red-rimmed.

“No, I mean, I want to stay here _._ ” The catch in her voice is enough to pull Rose’s attention back to her.

“Here? In Arcadia Bay?” Rachel nods. Rose gathers Rachel’s hands in her own. “You couldn’t wait to leave.”

“California is… it’s wearing a hole in me,” she rubs at the tightness in her chest absently. “I can feel it growing. I just want to be home for a bit, okay?”

Before Rose can respond, the doors swing open and a woman in blue scrubs walks over to them.

"Mrs. Amber?" The doctor looks like something is wearing a hole in her, too.

If she says anything after that Rachel doesn't hear it. It doesn't matter because she already knows. He's gone.

***

Chloe’s phone rings three times before she answers it. The number is unfamiliar.

“Hello?”

“Chloe.”

Rachel’s voice is the same as ever, maybe slightly raspier.

“It’s early here,” Chloe says quietly. Emily shifts in bed next to her but her breathing is still deep and low.

“It’s late here,” Rachel sighs. “My father is dead.”

Chloe jerks up in bed, accidentally knocking Peach onto the floor with a hiss and stirring Emily.

“What? How?”

“Heart attack,” Rachel says with an unexpected chuckle. “All those people who wanted him dead and… and…” Her voice breaks and Chloe can feel it, can feel the pain strangling Rachel’s chest like it’s her own. “ _Fuck_.”

“I’m…” What can she say? ‘I’m sorry’ is just… insufficient. Meaningless, even if it’s true. “Where are you? California?”

“I’m in Arcadia.” Rachel sounds more composed. “The viewing is on Thursday, if you want to come. We still have to wait for my relatives to fly in.”

“Of course, I’m going to come. Have you called Max?”

“Not yet. I called her earlier, when he was just going into surgery. Then he died and you were the only person I could think of.” Rachel’s voice is melodic, vague. It reminds Chloe of the way she sounded senior year, all of those pills, the chemicals fogging her eyes. Anxiety squeezes tight around Chloe’s muscles at the thought, the images of Rachel stumbling out of the club flooding back. But no, this is different, this is just shock, grief. “It’s been so long and I never called or texted or—”

“Neither did I. It doesn’t matter.” Chloe wants to ask her if she’s high, if she took a little something to help her sleep. But it isn’t her business anymore. “Clean slate, okay?”

Emily turns on her reading light.

“Yeah, clean slate. I’m sorry for calling.”

“Are you kidding? When my dad died, you kept me sane. If you think I’d ever let you do this alone—” Chloe stops herself. Emily’s eyes are on the back of her head. “I’ll be there on Thursday, maybe sooner if I can find someone to cover my shifts…”

“It’s okay if you can’t—”

“Rachel—”

“I mean you’re all the way over in god knows where. North Carolina was it? That’s far—"

“Rachel! I wouldn’t miss this okay? Not for anything.”

Rachel sighs again. “Thanks Chloe.”

The line goes dead and Chloe is left with her phone to her ear and Emily’s palm on her back.

“What was that about?” Emily asks.

“Sorry to wake you.” Chloe scoops up Peach and plops her back at the foot of the bed. She pulls the sheets back over her legs although she knows she won’t sleep now. “I need to go home.”


End file.
